Of Eyeliner and Leather
by ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is a twenty-three year old intern for the Metropolitan Police Force. He meets a man not much older than himself in interrogations room 3. Mycroft never thought he'd find someone to break down the walls, he also never thought he'd find someone like Greg Lestrade.
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay, badboy!Lestrade for the fuckyeahmystradefanfic page!**_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat across the small metal table from the perpetrator, Gregory Lestrade his file read; a hooligan in black leather and ripped denim. This is not what he had signed up for when he took the internship with the Met. He had pictured a desk where he would write up reports and other assorted office work, not getting his hands dirty with the lower levels of London society. Mycroft didn't necessarily _need _the internship, not with the power and influence the Holmes family name had on people. He had decided to take it though, knowing that there were at least two decent reasons for his doing so.

Firstly, by accepting the internship he had shown himself favourable in the eyes of the officers he now worked alongside. They would see him as a fastidious, hard-working intern, comfortable with the prose of police and government policies.

Secondly, when he managed his way up the ladder of Parliament and the British Government, bypassing the Prime Minister's seat of course and becoming and invisible director of just about everything, he could say he had worked his way to the top. Mycroft of course would never have to be a war veteran or businessman, only a ruthless opponent to those who chose to stand in his way. Mycroft Homes had power and wealth to spare, and when he set his mind on getting something, he never failed.

But here he sat in a hard, metal folding chair next to the arresting officer and across from this Lestrade fellow. He had to admit the guy wasn't _bad _looking for a ruffian; the leather jacket was shiny and well taken care of and the man's jeans hugged his body in all the right places. Mycroft couldn't even find it in himself to scoff at the eyeliner ringing the man's eyes, not with the way it was smeared almost artistically, making the glint in his hazel eyes more mischievous than dangerous.

"So loves, what you want me in here for this time?" Greg grinned, sitting up in his chair and placed his hands on the table. He caught Mycroft's eye and winked before tugging at the neck of his tee shirt. "If you wanted to ogle me, you could've done that without arresting me."

"Mr Lestrade, I pulled you over for speeding and running a red light. You proceeded to fight with me, spitting on my shirt if I recall correctly, allowing me to arrest you for resisting. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Fuck yeah, I wasn't speeding and the light was amber when I went through it. You believe me don't you sweet cheeks?" Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft who swallowed dryly, shifting in his chair uncomfortably.

"Mr Holmes is an intern of the Metropolitan Police Force and has no say in your case. Now, we can do this one of two ways. The easy way is that you apologise and pay your fines, or we can do it the hard way and you can spend a night behind bars."

"Mmm, I do like it _rough_," Lestrade growled, smirking in the direction of Mycroft who was obviously uneasy. "Perhaps he can give it to me, yeah?"

"I see. Your choice Mr Lestrade, I hope you do enjoy the city jail, a pretty boy like yourself won't last long."

"I'm tougher than you'd think. Here's the thing though, I'll pay my fines and issue my apology if this fine piece of arse over here gives me his number." Greg was all but leaning on the table, grinning lasciviously.

Mycroft sat back in his chair, inhaling deeply through his nose, thoroughly disgusted with Mr Lestrade. "I don't associate with the likes of you Mr Lestrade, though I do assure you that if you continue on in such a manner I may be persuaded to handcuff you to this table and leave you here overnight."

Greg grinned. Bingo. "God you're hot when you talk like that. I assure _you _Mr Holmes, one night with me and you'll leave your fancy waistcoat in the dumpster. Say the word and you can ride my motorcycle or just me in general, whenever you choose."

"Alright, that's enough," Officer Gregson said, cutting into Greg's banter. "Mycroft, go fetch the papers please so we can get this bloke out of here."

Mycroft stared at Lestrade a few seconds more before scooting his chair back with a grating metallic noise and half-ran out of the room, attempting to hide the fact that perhaps one Greg Lestrade may have had an effect on him.

When Mycroft returned with the release forms, Greg was leaning in his chair, humming some song that Mycroft most likely had never heard of. Mycroft handed the papers to Officer Gregson and sat back down in the folding chair, clasping his hands in front of him.

"I believe everything is in order here, please sign at the bottom of these few pages and pay the fine Mr Lestrade," instructed Gregson as he slid the papers towards Greg. Greg swept the pen over the paper quickly before pulling out his wallet. "How much do I owe the fine city of London this time Toby?"

"Do not refer to me like that _Gregory_. You owe 150 quid for this one. You need to learn to behave."

"Fuck that Tobes, rules are for people that give a shit, unlike me. They're for people like him," Greg pointed at Mycroft. "People in their fancy three-piece suits with their plastered on smiles and stoic expressions. You know what I think?" Greg leaned across the table, twisting the chain of Mycroft's pocket watch in his fingers. "I think what you need is a good shag, need to let yourself come apart some. My number is in the file sweet cheeks; phone me if you want some assistance." Greg pulled away from Mycroft who was visibly turning redder and tugged his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He tossed a bit of dosh on the table before winking at Mycroft lewdly and picked up his helmet before striding out the door.

"Is he always like that?" Mycroft asked a bit unsteadily, glancing over at Officer Gregson.

Tobias smiled, noting how rattled Mycroft seemed. "Yeah, he's a bit rough around the edges, but I think he's a good guy at heart. Funny though, you're not much younger than him but complete polar opposites."

Mycroft stood, following Officer Gregson out of the room. "You two seemed to know one another, does he get arrested a lot?"

"It's more I pull him and his Ducati or Jaguar over a lot. He's got more money than he knows what to do with." Tobias held the door open for Mycroft as they entered the small office Tobias shared with his partner, Mycroft taking the chair across from the window.

"How'd he get his money?" Mycroft asked, distracted by the roar of what could only be Lestrade's bike and he glanced out the window in time to see the blue motorcycle and it's rider pull away from the kerb.

"Family inheritance is what I heard. Father was CEO of Salisbury's for over a decade. That could explain the need for him to rebel. I've been picking him up for one thing or the other since he was old enough to drive."

Mycroft remained silent as he pondered the circumstances around Gregory Lestrade. He found the man made absolutely no sense whatsoever. For a person who had been raised in a home that must have meant affluence and wealth, Lestrade seemed to squander what he had been given instead of putting it to use like Mycroft had.

* * *

It had been three weeks since Mycroft had first met Greg Lestrade and yet here they were again, sitting in a small interrogations room. Greg was as cocky as ever, leering at Mycroft as soon as he entered the room. "Hey sweetheart, you look good in blue, suits you Mr Ice Man."

Mycroft fought the urge to roll his eyes, remaining expressionless as he took the seat across from Lestrade. "Good to see you in here again, Mr Lestrade. The city needs to find revenue from somewhere."

"Yeah, well I'm not the fucking bank of London now am I? I swear you Bobbies just pick me up so you can write down that you're doing the job and making a bit of dosh for the commonwealth while you're at it." Greg kicked his leather-booted feet onto the table, adjusting the crotch of his jeans to make himself more comfortable.

Mycroft couldn't help but to follow the movement of Greg's hand, watching as he shifted the slight bulge in his jeans before Mycroft caught himself. Mycroft cleared his throat before speaking, "Mr Lestrade, we here at the Met can assure you we are not arresting you to make our numbers look better, seeing as you are released every time. I can also say with full certainty that everyone has to pay the same fees. Now pay for your ticket and get out of here."

"Someone's impatient," Greg sneered, slipping his feet off the table and leaning across it, invading Mycroft's personal space. "I'm telling you, one ride with me and you'll loosen right up."

"No thank you, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground or a floorboard at all times," replied Mycroft quietly, not backing down.

"I can fuck you standing up then," replied Greg, licking his lips.

"That's enough Lestrade," Officer Gregson growled, shoving the release papers in front of Greg. "Let's get you out of here."

Mycroft watched as Lestrade shifted back into the chair, signing his name as he had done time and time before in the same room. Mycroft would almost think that Lestrade wanted to be here, to be arrested, but that was absurd, no one walked around wanting to get themself arrested.

Greg tossed the appropriate amount of quid on the table and pitched a piece of paper in Mycroft's general direction before heading to the door, tossing the keys to his car into the air. "That's for you love, I expect you to use it."

Mycroft fumed in the general direction of the doorway Lestrade had just exited, unfolding the piece of paper Lestrade had thrown onto the table, revealing the same numbers that Mycroft knew were in the thick folder in front of him. He rose to follow Officer Gregson out of the room, pausing at the trash bin before thinking better of it and tucked the paper in his breast pocket and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Mycroft opened the front door to his flat, sighing as he made his way wearily to the bedroom. He hung his suit up, the crinkle of paper causing him to pause momentarily before reaching into his breast pocket to pull out Lestrade's number. Mycroft placed the paper on the bed, eyeing the digits warily as if they would magically cause his mobile to phone Lestrade on its own.

Mycroft contemplated his reasons for keeping the number, none of them sounding quite sane in his head. He pulled on a silk pyjama set and Egyptian cotton dressing gown before taking his mobile and the scrap of paper into the study, shaking his head at himself for allowing Lestrade to get to him at all.

Mycroft set the objects on the edge of his favourite armchair, the leather slightly worn; having been his father's when the man was still alive. It had been six years since his death and two since Mycroft had moved from the estate in Northampton to his current flat in upper London.

Mycroft made his way to the side table holding crystal decanters of his favourite liqueurs and poured himself a stout glass of gin and tonic, clinking in two ice cubes before settling into the afore mentioned chair. He stared at the phone number, wondering why on earth he was even contemplating sending a text to a person like Lestrade.

After making his way through half a glass of the strong liquid and ten different messages that were automatically discarded, Mycroft had found half a reason to text the man. He would easily admit he was intrigued by Lestrade, a man who had every reason to be proper and well-bred yet chose to ride motorcycles and wear leather and eyeliner. Mycroft also thought he had caught a glimpse of where a hole had been pierced for a lip ring, but wasn't quite sure.

Mycroft finally chalked it all up to him being naturally inquisitive and composed a message to Lestrade, hitting the 'send' button before he could delete this one as well. _You are the most cliché; wish you were-an-enigma, person I have ever had the unfortunate displeasure to meet._

* * *

Greg stared at the message at his phone, grinning. It didn't take much for him to realize the person behind the message, sent to his phone from an unknown number. There was only one person in the world that had the number to his mobile that talked like that, Mycroft Holmes from the Met. Oh yes, Greg knew all about Mycroft Holmes, son of Beauregard and Corinne Holmes, brother to Sherlock. Home in Northampton, flat in London, worked for the Met on his course to power in the government, including, but not limited to usurping the Prime Minister himself.

Greg sat in the large library his father would frequent when Greg was young, reading him stories from the tomes lined along shelf after shelf in the cavernous room. He pressed his glass of Amontillado to his lips, enjoying the way the sherry burned lightly down his throat. So he had hooked the interest of Mycroft Holmes. Perfect.

Greg wasn't sure when the obsession with Mycroft had begun, and for a moment pondered the word obsession, almost as if it were too plebeian to use on such a poncy man. Greg formulated a reply, wanting to prove himself a worthy conversation, and perhaps later, if things went according to plan, sexual partner. Greg let a smile cross his face as his fingers tapped the screen of his iPhone, readying himself for the battle of witty one-liners and streams of sarcasm. _Ah, but you see Mycroft; if I were not a paradox then you would not find the need to message me at all._

* * *

**_I love reviews!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Sorry for the delay, I've been trying to get into school and I had to go to Atlanta for a training so it's been hard finding time to write! I hope you love it!_**

* * *

Mycroft had settled into reading Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_ for the twelfth time when his phone buzzed, alerting him a new message had come through. He glanced at the screen, Greg Lestrade flashing across it before Mycroft swept his thumb over the screen to reveal what was written inside. He smiled, knowing it was safe to do so in the security of his own home as he read what Lestrade had written. So Lestrade was no uneducated fool, a bit of the high society had stuck with him, even as he rebelled against everything his father had stood for.

Perhaps sending the message had been a good thing, Mycroft hadn't had a verbal sparring partner, barring Sherlock, in years and Greg Lestrade seemed to be up to the challenge. Bach played on in the background as Mycroft typed out a reply, reading it over before sending it to Greg. _Perhaps you are correct in your assumption. I do not find it good uses of my time to talk to people that are boring or simple. I must, however, admit that your taste in cars is quite refined._

Mycroft had seen the Jaguar that Gregory, as he had now dubbed him drove, a model straight from the floor of the dealership, much like the one that sat in Mycroft's personal garage.

* * *

"A compliment so soon," Greg laughed loudly, disturbing nothing but the dust in the old house. "And here I thought it was going to be hard to woo Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade pondered what he perhaps might say back to Mycroft, disregarding multiple ideas before landing on one that suited both the situation and Mycroft as well. _Perhaps you would care to take a ride in it at some point in time. That is of course, if you don't feel up to going around the block in your Rolls._

* * *

Mycroft lifted a delicate eyebrow at the message he had just received, realising suddenly that he had paused with his glass halfway to his mouth at the surprise of the information in Gregory's text. He knew that Gregory must be in affluent circles, perhaps even some that Mycroft kept to the edges of_. I must refute your offer, seeing as I refuse to be in a vehicle driven by a man with a pierced lip._ Mycroft smiled to himself, enjoying the conversation, more so perhaps than he would have if he had not known Gregory's intentions. Oh yes, Gregory was trying to play cool and mysterious, needing the attention from wherever he could get it, including the Met's resident intern. Mycroft would not allow it to get to him.

* * *

Greg snorted at Mycroft's latest message, realising he was as far away from wooing Mycroft Holmes as one could be. Mycroft had been baiting him and he should have seen it, instead growing overconfident of his charm. Mycroft had noticed the hole where Greg's lip ring had once resided, but he had lost the ring somewhere in the house and had yet to get it replaced. Perhaps Mycroft was more immune to him than previously thought. He studied the carefully constructed sentence and suddenly wished he could deconstruct the man behind it, to pull apart Mycroft piece by piece to see how he ticked. _Ah love, but you see, I am no longer in possession of the ring that fits into it, therefore your argument stands invalid._

* * *

Mycroft realised that Gregory did not give up without a fight, reminding him of himself in some ways. He crossed the room, refilling his glass before replying to Lestrade. _Well then, I guess I must put it in a way you understand. I do not want to take a ride with the likes of you. _He sent the message, relaxing back into the chair.

* * *

_Why not? I don't think you properly know me Mr Holmes. If perhaps we had met in a different venue, then things would be different, would it not Mr Holmes?_ Mycroft stared at the message, reading it through a few times before letting his screen go dark and finishing off his drink. He couldn't find it in himself to answer Lestrade's message, not even knowing what exactly to say. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed loudly into the empty room.

* * *

Mycroft sat grumbling in front of Officer Gregson who had spent the last twenty minutes explaining the need for Mycroft to go on the sting with him that night.

"Look," Gregson sighed, running a hand through his hair wearily, tired of dealing with Mycroft, "we just need you as our eyes and ears for a bit. If it's clothes you're worried about," Tobias paused to take in the stiff suit Mycroft had on, "I'm sure someone around here could lend you something."

"I am perfectly capable of providing my own clothing. I don't want to be seen in a club Tobias, it's demeaning."

"Out of all the things you could have possibly used to say you didn't want to, and that's what you use? Not because it's dangerous, not because we're asking you to go to a gay club undercover, but because you think it's demeaning that people who will be so drunk they will barely remember they were there might remember you?"

Mycroft huffed because when put like that it did seem to come off a bit whiny and prat-like. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it, Tobias, I merely said it's demeaning. You haven't even told me who else I'll be working with."

"That's because I don't know yet. Most of us on the force are old fogies that'll stick out like a sore thumb if we set foot in the place. I've got a couple of contacts that have helped in this area before." Tobias shifted slightly and Mycroft suddenly realised Tobias didn't want to tell him who he would possibly be working with.

"Well, I do hope they have a sense of decorum, I don't want some half-naked, pissed frat boy to carry around while I try and properly do my job."

Tobias smiled, shaking Mycroft's hand. "I promise no frat boy partners. Now, to ensure it doesn't look staged you'll need to arrive at the club at twenty-two hundred. Your partner will meet you there." Tobias checked his mobile which had just gone off and quickly scanned the message. "Your partner will be there and looking for you. You both know the marks, let's close this ring tonight."

Mycroft stood, promising that he would be there on time and dressed in proper club attire. "You have my word that we will get them tonight."

* * *

Mycroft had just left the kerb to get a cab when his closest friend and assistant, Anthea, pulled up in her sleek, onyx Mercedes. "I was just about to text you Anthea, I need assistance."

"You always need my assistance Mycroft, what is it this time? Da says I need to be home by dinner."

"Don't worry darling, I have places to be tonight as well. First, we need to go shopping, I'm working undercover tonight."

Anthea glanced at him over the rim of her sunglasses, biting her bottom lip between her teeth. "Undercover or under the covers Mycroft?"

"Hush you," Mycroft said sternly, glaring at her. "I'm working a sting at Lucky's tonight."

"The gay club? Oh Mycroft, you will definitely not fit in, but I can so fix that." Anthea was giggling as she pulled into traffic; heading towards a tailor she knew would fit Mycroft's needs and keep quiet about it as well.

"Anthea, you are lucky that you are an invaluable source for me. That and the fact that if I disowned you Mummy would get quite cross, else I'd have gotten rid of you a long time ago." Mycroft was _not _pouting, thank you very much, he was _sulking _and he could damn well do what he wanted in the confines of the car.

"That and the fact that I keep you real Mycroft. Does Mummy still have all of our wedding plans ready? So sad that such a beautiful ceremony will never see the light of day."

Mycroft laughed a little, remembering the first time Mummy had called Anthea over for what she had said would be 'female bonding' between the two of them and had turned into Mummy trying her best to get Anthea to promise to marry Mycroft. "She still has the book I'm sure. It's just that she wants grandkids and neither Sherlock nor I are inclined to give her any."

"So Sherlock is gay? I thought last time he was yelling about being asexual and running around in his pants."

Mycroft exhaled wearily, tired of dealing with his brother's antics. "He met a boy…well, accosted a boy the other day in the park by the name of John Watson. I've never seen Sherlock take to any kid like that, ever. So I'm guessing that he's taken a predilection to the male gender, which is no matter to me as long as he isn't yelling about it."

Anthea shook her head as she pulled into the car park of the quaint-looking tailor shop. She glanced over at Mycroft who had one eyebrow raised. "It looks innocent from the outside, I assure you, but the inside is tailored to more…specific needs."

"That sentence coming from you terrifies me Anthea. But I trust you, so let's get on with it shall we?" Mycroft opened the door to the car and climbed out, reading the sign above the door. _Anderson's Alternative Tailoring. _

Anthea breezed past Mycroft and opened the door. "Hey Anderson!" she greeted the man behind the counter cheerfully. "My friend needs a new set of digs for the club tonight, what do you have in his size?" Anthea pulled Mycroft fully into the store so that Anderson could appraise him.

"Give me a minute, okay Anthea?"

Anthea nodded, waiting until Anderson had gone in the back before judging Mycroft's reaction. "If whatever he brings out fits then I will never say anything bad about you again Anthea."

* * *

"Leather trousers! Leather!" Mycroft wailed as Anthea shoved him out the door and towards the car.

"You have to admit your arse looked great in them, Mycroft. You'll be the hottest thing in the club tonight. Maybe you'll finally get some action." Anthea opened the boot, shoving two bags into it before sliding behind the wheel.

"I don't need to get action. I have my job and I'm focusing on that and I don't have time for relationships."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Anthea broke in, holding her hand up to silence Mycroft. "I never said anything about a relationship; you just need a good shag to unwind you Mycroft. Just a little one night thing here and there to take the edge off, you know?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, unable to understand his friend. "Anthea that is no way for a soon-to-be government official to act. That's how political careers get ruined."

"Oh hell Mycroft, a one night stand isn't going to realise he shagged the great Mycroft Holmes until after you've gained enough power to squash him. I know you Mycroft; remember I've been here longer than anyone else." Anthea sighed, tying her hair back before pressing the button for the bonnet to retract.

"I'm not riding like this, I'll mess my hair."

"Good, the 'just-been-shagged' look is great for the club. You will not, I repeat, _will not _part it and gel it as you have such an inclination to do when going to work. You want to blend in, not stick out." Anthea gave Mycroft a sharp look, one telling him not to argue with her.

"Yes fine, but why was it necessary to get so _many _clothes? I'll never wear them again."

"Mycroft, where you're going in government, you never know what you might need to bring the world to its knees. You'll thank me one day."

Mycroft had to admit she had a point. "Fine, but must I wear the leather trousers tonight?" He had to admit he looked good in them, a feat he would have deemed impossible for his frame. He wasn't heavy, but he wasn't lanky either, nothing like his twig of a brother. He had a bit of pudge in his midsection that Anthea had told him was fine because it just meant he was more shaggable, how she knew that he didn't want to know.

"Yes Mycroft. You want to look your best. What if the person you're working with is a total fox and gay? You never know what could happen."

"Right, you remember what I said about relationships."

Anthea sighed, slipping into traffic easily. "Mycroft, if he's hot and your age and looks like a good shag, do him."

Mycroft stared at her, wondering not for the first time how he had become friends with such a crass girl. "I'm not going in looking for a good shag Anthea; I'm going in to do my job."

"Fine, squander away your youth then. Remember this night when you're balding alone in your office."

"I'm sure you'll tell me time and time again seeing as I'm sure you'll work for me."

"I wouldn't have it any other way Mycroft."

* * *

Mycroft stared at himself in the mirror, appraising his outfit. Anthea was next to him, her 'I-told-you-so' face permanently plastered on. He never thought he'd see the day that he'd be in leather trousers and a simple charcoal grey shirt that somehow managed to hug his frame in all the right places. Anthea had rolled the sleeves of the button-up to mid-forearm, tucking them neatly in before attacking the collar. "Leaving the top button undone shows that you're looking, but not desperate," she explained as she mussed his hair with just enough gel to give it a sexy, messy look.

"I'm not even going to ask."

"Best if you don't," she grinned, moving closer towards his face with what looked to be a tube of sorts.

"What is that? That better not be lipstick!" Mycroft backed away from her quickly; there were some things he was going to draw the line at.

"Don't be silly Mycroft, it's kohl, to rim your eyes, make you look mysterious."

Mycroft gaped as she twisted the bottom of the tube to reveal a thick black something-or-the-other that he eyed warily. "Is it necessary?"

Anthea smiled and Mycroft suddenly had flashes of a panther before it struck. "Oh yes Mycroft, in fact, it is the crowning piece of your disguise. A little smeared around your eyes will do wonders."

Gregory's face appeared in Mycroft's mind, the way Mycroft had first seen him and he thought about how Lestrade had had eyeliner rimming his eyes and how it brought out his eyes and-

"You awake in there Mycroft?" Anthea's voice broke through Mycroft's haze and brought him back to ground level.

"Yes, sorry, I was thinking about something."

Anthea raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting an answer and when none were forthcoming, blazed her own trail. "Mycroft, what were you thinking about? You were nearly drooling on yourself."

"Don't be ignorant, I was not. I was merely thinking about work."

"You need to get laid Mycroft," she sighed, catching his chin to hold him still as she applied the eyeliner. "I thought you had learnt that by now. Everything I tell you is for your own good love."

"You keep saying that, yet the more you say it, the less I believe it." Mycroft felt her release his face and looked back into the mirror, noting how the kohl made his eyes darker, pulling out the brown hues in them. "I do have to admit that I look quite good though."

"Told you so," Anthea sniffed, rolling her eyes at Mycroft. "You have two hours to be at the bar, I could drop you off if you want. We could get dinner beforehand."

"Me go out in this getup? No thank you."

"Good thing pizza's on its way then isn't it? Now let's get a bit of lager in you and some pizza before you head off to your little sting operation."

"Lager, really Anthea?"

"Well you're sure as hell not drinking Cognac with it Mycroft. It'll be better than anything at Lucky's will buy you, and you better drink it unless you didn't see it handed from the bar."

"Yes Anthea, I am smart enough not to get raped."

Anthea stood in front of the doorway Mycroft was trying to walk out of, her eyes boring into his. "It's not about being smart or not Mycroft, it's about paying attention. I'm your friend and I don't want anything to happen to you."

Mycroft softened, slumping slightly. "I know, I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"Damn right you shouldn't have. Now pizza's here, I'll get it and you pull out the sixer in the fridge."

Mycroft laughed as she strode away to answer _his _door before he made his way into the kitchen, pulling out the drinks she had somehow smuggled into his flat.

* * *

Mycroft stood by the bar watching the people around him. He had been there for precisely twelve minutes and forty-nine seconds according to his watch and his partner was now eight minutes and eleven seconds late. Before he left the flat Anthea had made him promise to try and have a good time for her and sent him off with a kiss on his cheek. He had rejected her offer of driving him to the club, instead taking his Lexus to there, getting valet parking.

He was eternally grateful that he was at least going to a club near Soho, instead of some of the dingier ones. Apparently Jim Moriarty, the kingpin of the human trafficking ring they were investigating, only took higher class citizens which could mean one of two things according to Mycroft. A, Moriarty was both extremely stupid and wanted to be caught, which of course would go against the whole point of the ring itself. Or B, Moriarty was extremely intelligent and cunning, possibly using a right-hand man to lure the people off site to kidnap them and then employing a team to get rid of all traces completely.

If it hadn't have been for someone using 'escort services' provided by Moriarty and recognising one of the people in the room then the Met may have never connected the disappearances. Moriarty didn't just get rid of all clues; he made it seem as if the people disappeared completely, all traces of them gone. He was a menace and almost impossible to stop. He had gotten rid of the Met's source a few weeks back, taking the man from under the Met's nose and so they were scouring the bars others had disappeared from, trying to get a clue or anything they could go on.

That was why Mycroft was here. He blended in and didn't reek of police protocols. He only hoped the person he would be working with was the same. Mycroft scanned the room for a sign of anyone he recognised but found no one familiar.

"Hey handsome, wanna dance?" asked a muscular blond in jeans tighter than Mycroft thought possible and a tight red tee-shirt stretched across his chest.

"I'm waiting for someone," he began, watching the bloke's face fall, "but I think I have time for a dance." Mycroft wasn't the type to dance much, but after watching the people in the club closely, he thought he could manage. He had a limited knowledge of pop music but the one playing was one he had heard on the telly once or twice. He followed the bloke out to the dance floor as the DJ changed songs.

"Oh, a classic," the guy laughed as a techno beat filled the room and the guy began to dance. "My name's Sebastian by the way," the guy said, his muscles flexing as he moved to the music.

"M-Michael," Mycroft lied, not wanting to give his real name out. Mycroft moved in time to the music, trying to pay less attention to the people around him.

"You don't get out much do you?" laughed Sebastian.

"Is it that obvious?" grinned Mycroft. "I had hoped no one would notice my lack of skill."

"It's alright; we all have to start somewhere. Do you come here regularly?"

Mycroft relaxed, falling into a natural rhythm as the guy moved closer. "No, first time actually, I thought I might scope out the scene."

"You live near here?" Sebastian purred in Mycroft's ear and a shiver involuntarily ran down his spine.

"About ten minutes, yeah."

"Maybe later we could head out together; I've got a place close to here." Sebastian pressed up against Mycroft, thrusting against Mycroft's leg lightly.

Mycroft's tongue darted out to lick his lips, his mouth suddenly going dry before finding his bearings. "I- yeah maybe if my friend doesn't show up. He's incredibly late to everything."

"Oh, is that so? Well, I'll tell you one thing Michael, I'm never late and I'll leave you wanting more."

Mycroft didn't think he'd ever been more turned on in his life and he found himself both cursing and praising Anthea and the Met for the position he was in. Before he could reply over the new song, something about a massive black hole that he couldn't follow, he was being grabbed by the arm.

"Hello love, didn't think I'd show did you?" A voice Mycroft knew oh so very well purred loud enough for the Sebastian bloke to hear.

"You're with this fleabag?" Sebastian grumbled. "Don't you take home a new one every night Greg?"

"Wouldn't you like to know Sebby? Just 'cause I haven't shagged you doesn't mean you can grind up on what's _mine_."

Mycroft glanced between them, thankful that his mouth wasn't hanging open at the appearance of Greg Lestrade. He thought back to the conversation with Officer Gregson and sincerely hoped that Gregory was not the man he had asked to help them.

Of course, if Mycroft were being truthful he'd have to admit that he didn't mind all that much, especially when Gregory _growled _at Sebastian. _Stop this Mycroft, if he's your partner for the night it's all an act._ He thought he had been turned on at Sebastian's dancing, but the low rumble in Gregory's voice sent him to a whole new level of turned on. Honestly, how was he supposed to work when he couldn't even keep his libido in check? He needed to calm himself down.

"Sorry Sebastian, I am with this fleabag, he talked me into meeting him here tonight," interrupted Mycroft who had been ignoring their little feud about who had the bigger prick.

"Good luck with that, I'm pretty sure he's ridden everyone in here."

"Oh Sebby, not everyone, just half of them," replied Greg in a snarky tone, rolling his eyes before he pulled Mycroft away.

"What the hell are you doing Mycroft?" Greg snapped, letting go of Mycroft's arm and stalked towards the bar.

Mycroft hurried after him, lust turning into anger. "What are you talking about? I'm here trying to have some fun!"

Greg ordered drinks for the both of them before he pulled Mycroft flush to him to whisper in his ear. "I'm your partner for the night whether you like it or not. So why the bloody hell were you dancing with some other bloke and not paying attention to the crowd?"

If it had been anyone but Mycroft they might have missed the 'other' before bloke and suddenly realised that Gregory was angry that he had been dancing with Sebastian. "Gregory, I do believe that you were late and I was trying to blend in. Jealousy does not become you. Oh, do you like my outfit?" Mycroft figured he might as well rub it in that he was extremely good-looking and that he'd received looks for the past twenty minutes if Gregory was going to be an arse about him finding someone to dance with.

"I'm not jealous!" scoffed Greg, turning his nose up. "I'm here trying to find my bloody partner and you're off dancing with the club whore."

"Oh, now I thought that was you," Mycroft sneered, not sure why the accusation had dug into him the way it had.

"Sebastian is a jealous little prick that wants everyone but is too desperate. He ends up going home with someone every time he's here though. I on the other hand, have many offers, but never take them up on it. I don't want scandals and all of that mess. I make enough trouble for myself as it is."

"That you do Gregory. Also, I would appreciate it if you called me Michael, the cover I'm using tonight."

Greg raked his eyes over Mycroft, a smile spreading across his face. "Michael, eh? I can dig that as long as you drop the fucking Gregory and call me Greg. That's what everyone here knows me by." Greg turned to get the drinks from the bartender he obviously knew before handing one to Mycroft. "Well then Michael, let's get this drink in you and get you on the floor."

Mycroft almost dropped his drink before he realised Gregory meant the dance floor and regained his composure, sipping at the champagne. "This is vintage eighty-nine is it not?" he asked, staring at Greg.

"Yeah," Greg laughed, "my personal stock, I thought you would like this better than the stuff they give to everyone else."

"You give this to all your dates?"

Greg looked at Mycroft strangely before downing his glass and tugging on Mycroft's hand. "Let's dance love."

Mycroft set the glass he had finished on the counter, allowing himself to be led out onto the dance floor as the DJ switched over to a slow song. "Perfect," Greg grumbled, "reminds me of school dances. Not what I needed today."

"Come on, we're on the job," Mycroft declared, grabbing Greg's hips, pulling him closer. "We have to pretend we like one another, yeah?"

_This is not a date, you are not trying to pick him up _Greg mentally reminded himself, having decided to patiently woo Mycroft. It wasn't his fault that Toby had asked him to do this case, knowing Greg would be able to pick anyone odd out of the crowd. "You're right," he finally answered, sliding his arms around Mycroft's shoulders and pulling him as close as possible before singing along with the song. "I have died every day, waiting for you. Darling don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years."

Mycroft let his head fall to Gregory's shoulder, surprised at the voice Gregory had, a strong tenor. Mycroft began cursing himself for wanting to do this every night, reminding himself that he was dancing with apparently one of the most wanted men in this club. How many men had Gregory really had relations with?

"None from this bar, one overall and it was horrible," Greg answered, making Mycroft pull away slightly. "I could feel the question hanging in the air. The people I take home are usually too drunk to drive, so I drive them home, make sure they make it inside their door and then I leave. I don't drink much, I come here to unwind, just be myself, not Gregory Lestrade, owner of ten Salisbury's and the son of the late CEO Mourray Lestrade."

"One, that's it? With your reputation and style I would imagine that you'd have a string of lovers."

"And with your name and previous state of dress I would have thought you were a pompous arse that doesn't understand the meaning of fun, yet here you are in leather trousers." Lestrade was thankful for the song change so he could move away from Mycroft, bristling at the words.

"I-I apologise Greg, I didn't mean to offend you."

"Yes you did," Greg retorted, relaxing a bit. "And so did I, so we're even." He pulled Mycroft back to him as the crowd began to flood with people grinding against one another. Greg grabbed at Mycroft's hips, fitting his left leg between Mycroft's legs and pressing upwards _just so_, enough that Mycroft let out a low whine in his throat. _To hell with slow wooing, _Greg thought, _if I can get him in my bed tonight, I will._

Mycroft wanted to pull away and press himself harder into Greg at the same time. He'd had relations once when he was younger and nothing that Alex had done felt anything like the pleasure shooting through Mycroft's body at the feel of Gregory's leg pressing against his clothed cock. Mycroft suddenly found himself being pulled into a kiss, Gregory's lips rough against his own and that muscular leg pressing against him was enough to make Mycroft grab at Gregory's shirt and kiss back.

Greg pulled away first, gasping for air as a chorus of catcalls and yells made their way through the crowd, applause breaking out and someone yelled 'damn that was hot!' before Mycroft was pulling Greg in for another kiss. This one was hotter, needier than the last and it was all Greg could do from pulling Mycroft into the loo and taking him there. He broke the kiss, scanning the room, "if we keep this up we're going to forget why we're here," he whispered between pants, his mouth close enough to Mycroft's ear that he could catch the lobe between his teeth and – fuck he was so hard.

Mycroft nodded numbly, eyes cloudy with lust as Greg's words slowly registered with him. "Right, right. I, um, I was making it look authentic."

"Like hell you were," growled Lestrade, biting down on the shell of Mycroft's ear, causing Mycroft to yelp. "You know exactly what the fuck you were doing and you _wanted _it."

"I'm a good actor Greg," Mycroft uttered, moving away from the other man. "I'm here for my job."

"That glaringly obvious hard-on you have showing in your incredibly tight leather trousers says otherwise Mycroft." Greg was cut short from his next sentence as a flurry of movement caught his eye. "Back door," he exclaimed to both Mycroft and the microphone he was shouting into.

Mycroft pushed his way through the crowd to the door whatever person Greg had seen must have went through. "We'll get them!" he crowed as he shoved open the door, turning towards the figure running down the alley.

Greg turned out to be faster, catching the person as they turned back from where Officer Gregson and a few other officers stood. He pinned the guy, a teenager from the looks of it to the wall, holding him there until Mycroft caught up, slightly out of breath before taking a look at the kid. "Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he yelled, rage building up inside his chest.

"You know this kid?" asked Gregson, looking between them.

"Yes," Mycroft answered, biting down on his bottom lip and closing his eyes. "This idiot is my baby brother. Please arrest him if needed."

"Well, he's not part of the ring is he?" Gregson asked, looking at Sherlock.

"Oh god no, I don't know what he- Sherlock what are you doing here?"

Sherlock blinked twice before answering. "You weren't at home so I called Anthea and she said you were working on something with the Met and I followed the spot from your car, they never fixed that leak."

"Why did you need me?" Mycroft asked slowly, advancing on his brother.

"I was bored."

"Oh bored were you?" Mycroft bellowed, throwing his hands in the air. "You do realise that your ignorance has just cost us valuable time and money? All because you were bored? That's it! I'm phoning Mummy and telling her to restrict your library and laboratory use for a month. Don't look at me like that," he continued when Sherlock opened his mouth, "you bloody well deserve to be restricted for a sodding year! Now, go wait in the car while I discuss this with the _adults_."

Sherlock was about to throw a tantrum, Mycroft had learned to see them from a mile away so he narrowed his eyes and pointed towards the mouth of the alley they stood in. Sherlock huffed loudly, moving away from the wall and moped off down the alley, his head hanging.

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft sighed. "We can do this again next Saturday on my time and money if you prefer since my dolt of a brother ruined this one."

Officer Gregson sighed, waving for the DI on the case to come over. "Dimmock, what do you think, should we let Mycroft here do this again?"

"If he wants to spend his money on it, yeah, let's do it. Same time and place boys. Nice to see you on our side for once, Greg."

Greg rolled his eyes and presented Dimmock with a string of swear words as Mycroft turned to exit the alley, still fuming. How was it that his genius of a brother was so stupid sometimes?

Mycroft rounded the corner to get his keys from the valet, explaining that he needed to walk for a bit to clear his head. He made his way to the car park, sighing when he made it to his car. He stopped suddenly, noticing Sherlock was not sulking in the front seat as he should have been. "Sherlock?" he yelled, looking around frantically for signs of his brother. "Sherlock!" When no answer was received he fumbled for his mobile, pressing the keys to call his newest contact. "Gregory, they have Sherlock."

* * *

**_A/N: The songs in the club are as follows : What is Love-Haddaway, Supermassive Black Hole-Muse, and A Thousand Years-Christina Perri_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**So, so sorry for the delay! Next chapter up soon I promise!**_

* * *

"How the bloody hell did they manage to get him in that short amount of time? Without any of you seeing?" demanded Mycroft, pulling himself to full height, seeming to grow to tower over the officers. Mycroft Holmes managed to look both terrifying and powerful in leather trousers, stalking around the meeting room of the Met, fuming.

Officer Gregson stepped forward, shifting nervously, knowing that Mycroft was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any second. "Mycroft, we will find your brother. We received news today of an accomplice to Moriarty, a Moran fellow-"

Greg jumped up from his chair, yelling, "No fucking way! Sebby can't be a fucking accomplice to a criminal mastermind; he's not even all there!"

Mycroft stilled, turning to face Gregory, his voice dripping ice and venom, "do you mean to say, I was dancing with the accomplice to Moriarty and we let him _walk away_?" Mycroft's voice dropped to a soft, dangerous level, causing the hairs on Greg's neck to stand on end. The kohl rimming Mycroft's eyes no longer caused Mycroft's eyes to shimmer, instead the arctic blue eyes were glinting alarmingly, Mycroft's anger about to break through in full force.

Greg backed away a step or two, glancing around the room. "I had no idea, you have to know that Mycroft."

"Someone better be getting to that club now and finding out where my brother may be. Someone there has to know where Moran lives, he said he had a flat close by, and in order for the cover to work, he has to have one."

Greg pondered Mycroft's words. If he had shown up later, would Mycroft have gone with Sebastian? Would Mycroft disappear along with all of the other people? Would all of this have fallen on Greg's inability to follow rules? Greg moved closer to Mycroft who was barking orders at the officers, glaring at anyone who dared to try and stare in his way.

Mycroft was furious, his lip curled into a posh snarl, glowering at anyone who dared moved near him in an act of rebellion against him. Mycroft could have any of these men fired in a moment's notice, and was thinking about firing the lot of them and giving Greg the DI position because at least he'd kept his head and stood silently until Mycroft was ready to sink his teeth into the man.

Greg's breath hitched when Mycroft levelled his gaze at him, advancing towards him. "Gregory, I need your help. I know you can get me footage from any of your stores and I need CCTV footage from all of them in a two kilometre radius of that club." Mycroft grabbed his arm as Greg turned to leave. "I don't blame you; I know you didn't know about Sebastian, he fooled me as well. Please don't beat yourself up about this; you're the most valuable resource I have."

Greg grinned, "of course I am love, and I know these streets and the club scene better than anyone else around here." Greg dared to press a kiss to Mycroft's hand before pulling away to head home. He turned around again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "You could come with me; see it as soon as I call it up."

Mycroft nodded, it made sense that he wouldn't have to wait to find out anything. The Met had their hands full anyway with all of the orders Mycroft had given them and most likely wouldn't even notice that Mycroft was missing.

"All I've got is the Ducati though," Greg told him, looking unsurely at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed, "why not? I'm already in leather trousers with my hair looking as if it has not been combed for three days. Might as well jump on the back of a motorcycle to end out this evening."

Greg laughed at the sarcasm oozing from Mycroft's words as they made their way out to where Greg had parked his bike on the kerb. Gregory handed a black helmet to Mycroft, donning an electric blue one that was in the hidden compartment.

"Show-off," Mycroft muttered as Gregory straddled the bike, patting the seat behind him.

"Come on love, just hold on tight and enjoy the ride," Greg grinned, kicking up the stand and knocked his boot against the starter, pumping the throttle as the bike roared to life, humming beneath the two men as Greg added the gas, the bike taking off from the kerb.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, holding onto Gregory for dear life until he realised that Gregory had full control of the motorbike and dared to open his eyes. He laughed as he watched buildings pass by, much like he was sitting in the passenger seat of Anthea's car. Gregory took the turns less sharply than he usually would, Mycroft surmised, releasing Gregory from the death grip he had had him in, basking in the warmth of Gregory's body against him.

This was no time to think about that though, not when Sherlock was most likely in a dingy, dirty flat somewhere, possibly in a room full of others like him and Mycroft shuddered to think of what he could be being forced to do. He knew Sherlock had been drugged, Sherlock would have called out, screeched Latin at his attacker, biting and kicking whoever it was until they released him. Chloroform, Mycroft guessed, Sherlock would have been out in a matter of seconds, his wiry frame light enough to be carried off to a waiting car quickly.

Greg wound his way through traffic and side streets until they had made their way into Sloane Square. Greg pulled into an open spot next to his Jaguar, kicked the stand down, and waited for Mycroft to get off. Mycroft sat there, stunned for a moment, before he regained his composure and dismounted the motorcycle.

Greg pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his hair, grinning wide enough that Mycroft was sure he saw every last one of Gregory's teeth. "Told you that you'd enjoy it," he laughed, leading Mycroft to his door.

"If by that you mean that I showed absolutely no fear and met the challenge in stride, then yes, you could say I enjoyed it."

Greg rolled his eyes as he unlocked the door to the flat, ushering Mycroft in before typing the alarm code in.

Mycroft took in the leather couch, worn slightly more on the seat closest to the lamp where he figured Greg must sit to read. A stiff-looking wingback armchair sat unused and forlorn in the corner. Mycroft assumed it was Greg's deceased father's old armchair that Gregory must have felt enough attachment to, to keep, but not enough to use regularly.

Mycroft had to admit that the flat was nicely furnished, more appropriately so than he had expected. The flat was without the pizza boxes and beer bottles usually found at a bachelor flat and Mycroft was glad to see that Gregory had a wine rack instead of a sixer in the fridge (although Mycroft supposed that there would be beer of some import in there if he looked). "I have to say Gregory; you have certainly exceeded my expectations with the flat."

Greg laughed, hanging his coat up in the small closet next to the door. He took a moment to realise that he had actually gotten Mycroft Holmes in his flat before he remembered that said man's brother was kidnapped and Mycroft wasn't here for a glass of wine and a good shag. "I appreciate that Mycroft, seeing as you seem to be a connoisseur on all things fine breeding-wise."

"Yes Gregory, I do enjoy the finer things."

Greg strode across the room, into his study where his computer sat and reached down to press the power button.

Mycroft followed slowly, feeling like a stranger. He watched as the screen flickered to life, a picture of an old car that Mycroft couldn't place, probably American flashed as Gregory's background and his shortcut buttons appeared.

Greg motioned for Mycroft to join him, pulling a chair next to the one he was currently seated in. He began to type commands on the keyboard; images flashing on the screen as the computer ran facial recognition software Mycroft was sure was classified.

"Where did you get this software?" he asked incredulously, leaning towards the screen.

"You aren't the only one with friends in high places Mycroft," Greg replied surreptitiously as the computer dinged, pausing on a photo. Greg pointed to the screen. "There, that's Sebastian and a kid that looks like Sherlock. Does that car look familiar."

Mycroft contemplated kissing Gregory for doing something so quickly that the Met would have taken hours to get around to. "No, but print it. Also, I need you to e-mail it to this address." Mycroft held his phone out and Greg let out a low whistle at the tacked onto the end.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, Myc."

"Never call me Myc again and I shall see that you never end up in jail again." Mycroft pulled his phone back towards him, sending a preliminary email to the MI6 representative he had been given access to at age eighteen. Being a Holmes was good for something.

Greg laughed, "Whatever you say, love."

Mycroft levelled a glare at Greg who had turned back to the screen, sending print and send commands to his computer. He leaned back after he was finished. "Now what?"

"Now Gregory, we wait."


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Yes, I know the wait was ridiculous and I apologise profusely. I'm hoping the events of the chapter make up for the length of the wait and that the next chapter will come sooner.**_

* * *

Mycroft's definition of waiting seemed to be much different than that of Greg's. Greg had retired into an armchair with a glass of scotch while Mycroft typed away at his mobile.

Once, earlier in the evening, Mycroft had excused himself to make a call and Greg could make out the words 'double-oh nine' and 'Central Intelligence Agency' along with Mycroft calling someone a bloody tosser which seemed quite un-Mycroft like to Greg.

Upon Mycroft's return to the study, Greg remained silent about the overheard conversation and was about to return to his book when Mycroft folded his hands in his lap and sighed deeply. "You have questions."

Greg marked his place in the book and sat it on the arm of his chair. "Yeah, but I'm guessing you won't have many answers."

A smile ghosted over Mycroft's lips for a brief second. "Quite observant Gregory. I assure you though, I am no spy. My father however, was. Worked for MI6 and therefore I do have friends in very high places, including Buckingham, the consulate, CIA, and parts of the underground Russian mafia."

Greg blinked a couple of times. "Figures your da would be a fucking secret agent. Why are you slumming it in the Yard then?"

"Because I learned from a young age that some things are better when worked for instead of being handed to you. Mummy has always engrained that into Sherlock and me. He however, has yet to grasp the concept and wastes his time on frivolities and annoying every living soul around him. He has a short temper and a sharp mind, both of which get him in trouble easily. All of that coupled with the fact that he grows bored quite easily keeps me constantly on the watch for him making trouble."

"So when he said he had come looking for you because he was bored, that's really what it was?"

Mycroft settled more fully into the chair, his mobile oddly silent for once as every power he could call on busied themselves looking for one James Moriarty and accomplice, Sebastian Moran. "Yes. Ever since Father passed, Sherlock has been more troublesome than usual. I think he seeks me out to try and get on my nerves, but I'd much rather he be near me than out on the streets causing trouble."

Greg sat quietly for a bit, absorbing all of the new information Mycroft had let him hear and Greg wondered how many people Mycroft had ever opened up to. "Y'know, I despised my da for a bit. When I was younger he was always flying off to conferences and the like, seeing as he was CEO and all, but when I was older he sat me down in his office and showed me stacks of papers he had filled out, rules and regulations and the like that he had helped shape. It worked for a bit, knowing that his workload was time-consuming, worked until he missed a birthday, two football games and a rugby match all within the span of three months that I really started to resent him.

"All of the other kids had their mums and dads at the matches and I just had my mum who was a quiet sort of lady, never wanted to get dirt under her nails so to speak. I felt like all the other kids had it so much better."

Lestrade closed his eyes before Mycroft asked, "Is that why you started rebelling?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that. I fell in with the wrong sort of crowd, did it to spite mum who wanted me in three piece suits and to attend bloody Charterhouse."

"And you didn't want that?" Mycroft questioned silently.

Greg looked over at him, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Didn't you ever get tired of it? The rules, the mannerisms, bloody hell you had to talk a certain way to get in with the right crowds!"

Mycroft let out a low chuckle. "In case you have not yet noticed Gregory, you and I took our breeding very differently. Where you rebelled, bought a motorbike and tattooed your left shoulder blade, I personally _did_ attend Charterhouse, wore my school attire proudly, and learned to talk with precision and dedication. You and I are very different people whose paths never meant to cross, and yet here we are."

"Yeah, here we are. Seems a bit odd that a few months ago I was sitting across from you in an interrogations room, trying to get your number, and here we are, working together to find your brother."

The room went deadly quiet as both Greg's and Mycroft's mobiles went off at the same time, alerting them to similar messages. _Moran. Apartment. Redesdale Street. Chelsea. _Mycroft stared at the phone, mouth set into a firm line. "They couldn't have been stupid enough to use Moran's actual name, could they?"

"Well, if they did then we're lucky, yeah?"

"Gregory, it seems like a trap to me. Moriarty is much smarter than to use a man that rents a flat in his own name."

Greg folded his arms, thinking. "Perhaps it shows their arrogance. They may have thought they were too good to be caught, that no one would ever catch onto their trail."

"Then they are in fact, extremely stupid. Especially to kidnap the brother of a Holmes."

Greg stood from his chair. "Come on, you can kip here for the night and tomorrow morning we can go investigate the flat, alright? We need to be rested, give the Yard, or whoever the hell you have on the case now, time to get their forces together."

"I can just get a driver to come get me; I wouldn't want to impose more than I already have."

Greg fixed Mycroft with a stare, his mouth forming a thin line. "I am going with you tomorrow; therefore it is smarter for you to just stay here. I have plenty of room and you are quite welcome to take my bed."

"Gregory, I cannot take your bed. That would be rude of me."

"I am offering it to you," Greg countered. "I'll sleep on the couch. If you need to use the computer, you are free to it, it's still on and therefore you will not need a password for it, although I'm sure you could hack it within five minutes if need be."

Mycroft smiled. "Three minutes, but your point is understood. Are you sure you wish to give up your bed to me?"

It was Greg's turn to smile. "Quite sure. There's a bathroom attached to the bedroom and one in the hall. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Do you happen to have any scotch? I prefer a glass on the rocks before bedtime."

"I'll pull out the snifter and get you one. Pyjamas and dressing gowns are at your disposal as well."

"You have been increasingly kind to me Gregory; I only hope to repay the kindness in the future."

Greg nodded, moving to the liquor cabinet. "Perhaps after your brother is found we can discuss something."

"If you are referring to your earlier attempts to get me on a date with you then you may find yourself unfairly repaid, seeing as I am not a man that dates."

"Like I said, we'll discuss it once your brother has been safely returned to you." Greg picked up to glasses, moving to put ice cubes in them before pouring the amber liquid over them, handing one to Mycroft before sipping at his own. "Try and get some sleep Mycroft, you'll need to have your strength,"

Mycroft bit back a scathing remark, and instead set a smile upon his face before bidding Greg a goodnight.

* * *

Greg rolled over on the couch for what seemed to be the one hundredth time, the clock now reading two in the morning. He sat up, scrubbing his face with his left hand before plodding down the hall to the bathroom.

As he flicked the light off to the loo he noticed a glow coming from under the study door and surmised that Mycroft must still be awake as well. He slowly pushed the door open, finding Mycroft seated in the desk chair, the computer running a program while Mycroft leafed through a book sitting on his lap.

"You were quite adorable as a child," Mycroft said quietly, causing Greg to jump a foot in the air.

"What?" he asked, peering over Mycroft's shoulder to find an old family photo album sitting in his lap.

Mycroft pointed to a picture of a young Greg, dressed in his school uniform, standing next to his mum. "Quite the looker really, I imagine all of the girls swooned over you."

"Swooned over my money more when I was older," Greg replied gruffly.

Mycroft tsked, closing the album and leaned up to place it back on the bookshelf before typing a couple of things into the computer. "I'm doing a couple of crosschecks on Moriarty and Moran, seeing what all I could dig up. Couldn't sleep really."

"Neither could I," Greg sighed, leaning over the chair as he rested a hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft relaxed under the slight pressure, closing his eyes. "This is entirely my fault; if I had just walked him to the car he'd still be safe."

"Don't say that," Greg admonished, turning the chair and crouched at Mycroft's knee. "You didn't know they would target someone as young as Sherlock. Hell, none of us knew."

"I should have known," Mycroft said, his voice straining. "I was supposed to look after him."

Greg's heart twisted at the sight of tears in Mycroft's eyes and he wanted nothing more than to soothe the man until they arrived in Chelsea later that day. He did the only thing he could think of and took Mycroft's hand, astonished when the other man didn't pull his hand away, but instead gripped it tightly. "Mycroft, we will find him, and we will get Moran and Moriarty for this. You know it."

"What if they've done something to him?" Mycroft shuddered at the thought, his eyes closing again as he imagined the horrors his little brother could be going through.

Greg rubbed his thumb across the back of Mycroft's hand. "Mycroft, I promise he'll be fine, he has to be. I'd be surprised if he doesn't put up a nasty fight when he wakes up."

A smile ghosted across Mycroft's lips as he thought about the hell Sherlock would give his captors upon waking. If there was anything Sherlock had in abundance it was the ability to retaliate strongly to anything he disliked. "Alright, I'll attempt, though most likely it will be a poor attempt, to not worry about Sherlock until we receive more information."

"Thank you," Greg sighed and with slight trepidation for the safety of his life and limbs, leaned up to press a quick kiss to Mycroft's own lips.

Mycroft sat stunned for a moment at how brazen Gregory was before returning the kiss lightly which only seemed to spur Greg on into a more heated kiss, pressing against Mycroft's lips fervently.

It wasn't until Mycroft pressed a hand firmly against Greg's chest and pushed the man away that the kiss broke. Mycroft's cheeks were flushed, Greg's own taking on a rosy glow as they avoided one another's eyes for the briefest of moments.

"I- look, I'm sorry," Greg mumbled, looking at the floor. "Your brother's kidnapped and you've stated multiple times that you don't want this and I go and do that."

"Gregory." Mycroft quieted Greg, his voice icy but with an edge of tenderness laced beneath that Greg had never heard. "I cannot deny the attraction I feel for you, but this would never work between us. Perhaps if we had met at a different time and I was a different man, things would be different. Alas, it is what it is. Although I did enjoy the kiss, I must ask it never be repeated lest we end up in a place neither of us quite wants. I would be a terribly lover seeing as I have many secrets and travel extensively. You don't want to be tied down, which is something I expect of men that are possible candidates to share my bed."

Greg had to admit that Mycroft sounded like he had figured everything out, had covered all the bases, but once he wanted something, he tried his best before he let it go. "Let me take you on a real date, a proper one, after we find your brother and we have this conversation then if I can't convince you otherwise."

Mycroft studied Gregory, wanting to desperately to understand what Greg saw in him that he had latched onto like this. "I cannot promise anything more than the possibility of one date Gregory, that's all."

Greg smiled, kissing Mycroft's cheek quickly. "Get some sleep; we have a flat to investigate in the morning."

* * *

The sun gleamed in Mycroft's eyes as he blinked them open, rolling to his side to find a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, sipping at the warm liquid. It had been sweetened just as Mycroft liked it and had been pleased to find something with a bit more caffeine in it than a hot cuppa.

Greg was dressed and sitting in an armchair when Mycroft made his way out to the lounge, still holding tightly to the mug. "How did you know I preferred coffee over tea in the morning?"

"I figured with the hours you put in, much like mine in our own ways, you'd prefer something with a better ability to wake you up."

"Most would just stick a cup of breakfast tea under your nose and be done with it."

Greg smiled; glad he'd gotten it right. "Couldn't do that with Mycroft Holmes in my flat could I? Your father, Alistair, was a great man."

Mycroft looked more closely at the papers sitting on the armchair. "You did your homework."

"I did. Found out quite a bit too. You did go to Charterhouse, were the valedictorian of your class and won honours in multiple classes. Your younger brother Sherlock, who is seven years your junior, attends Charterhouse now and although he's been on probation multiple times for being a problem student, he's at the top of his class."

Mycroft nodded with each new fact. "Quite correct, Gregory. I underestimated the friends you have."

Greg smirked. "Did you now? Thought I was just a ruffian on the street, eh? Well I wasn't always like that. If you were the pint getting kind of man I'd say we'd head over to Billie's after all this and get one. But you aren't that kind of man so maybe we could have a glass of wine and talk about our mutual friends at MI6."

Mycroft sighed, setting his empty mug on the coffee table. "Gregory, we discussed this last night."

Greg held out a hand to hush Mycroft. "I didn't say a date. I know there are days I sure as hell wish I could vent to someone, and I know you do too. But you don't have anyone do you? You need someone who understands the pressures of secrets and having to travel all the time."

"And you think you're qualified? You own a motorcycle."

Greg forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Yes, and that doesn't make me any less of the CEO I am than if I drove a Lamborghini."

"You're still the CEO? I thought the board had stripped you of the title after your second arrest."

Greg grinned, happy to have one up on Mycroft. "They tried to, but father had made his will iron tight in order to keep the board from ever doing such a thing. He never put much faith in the trustees. The only way for the title to pass from me is if I die or step down personally. To be honest, I like living comfortably, so I keep the title, attend meetings, get others to do the press appearances and do whatever the hell I want otherwise."

"So it was all a ploy so that people would move their attention from you? Quite brilliant."

"I agree. No one could give a rat's arse what a washed up CEO that drinks too much and swears all the time is doing. It takes pressure off the PR team and I'm free to live my life."

Mycroft smiled, Gregory was much smarter than he had previously given him credit for.

"But enough about me, Mycroft, let's go look at that flat."

* * *

Mycroft followed Gregson and Agent Ellis into the flat. A quick sweep of the area had deemed it safe and Mycroft peered around the area cautiously. "Did you check the safe wall?" he queried, running his hand across the bookshelf that hid it.

"We didn't know one was in here." The agent said, looking at Mycroft disdainfully.

"Yes, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf hides it quite well, seeing as the bookshelf is the door."

Gregson inspected the bookshelf, but before he got further than the second tier, Greg had found the lever and opened it.

"Good catch Gregory," Mycroft smiled.

It was Greg's turn to smile as he explained. "It was the most worn book on the shelf; the binding was coming loose at the top where someone had obviously grasped it from the top and the bottom was folded upwards from the tilting back."

"Hello?" came a small voice from inside the darkness and both Gregson and the MI6 agent drew their guns, forcing Mycroft and Greg behind them. Gregson swung the door open silently and tightened his grip on his Browning as a form moved closer.

"There's five of us in here, idiots. We've been kidnapped."

Mycroft would recognise that voice anywhere. "Sherlock?" He tried to push through the two armed men but was stopped. Agent Ellis reached forward to flick on a light, revealing the occupants of the closet. Sherlock and five missing adults; Melissa Elderige, Steven Harris, Lacey Twing, Arthur Morris, and Ashley Jones were all bound.

"Sherlock are you alright?" Mycroft asked, kneeling to untie his brother once Ellis deemed it safe to enter.

Sherlock pushed the rope off his arms, scowling. "I'm fine Mycroft. Take me home."

Mycroft pulled Sherlock towards him, addressing Gregson. "I'm taking my brother home; we'll stop by the station tomorrow to answer any questions."

Gregson nodded his assent as Mycroft turned to Greg. "Gregory, I will let you know when we're heading towards the station. I still require your assistance if you are still offering it."

Greg grinned. "For you Mycroft, always."


	5. Chapter 5

"I swear to everything I hold dear Sherlock that if you_ ever_ do something that stupid again in your life I will force you to board at Charterhouse until you graduate. Do you understand me?" Mycroft was seething with pent up rage that Sherlock didn't necessarily deserve, but Mycroft needed to get his anger out somehow.

"If you're mad that I ruined your date with that Lestrade fellow then oh well," Sherlock sneered. "You don't have time for frivolities, remember?"

Mycroft sighed, sitting in the closest armchair. "Sherlock, Gregory was my partner for a case we were working, a _kidnapping _case. There is nothing of a romantic nature between him and me."

"You obviously couldn't see the way he was looking at you." Sherlock had curled up on the couch, watching Mycroft carefully.

"Doesn't matter. Once Moran and Moriarty are caught, we will go our separate ways."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh god you do have feelings for him."

"You know, why don't you run along to bed? You've lost sleep and been traumatised."

"Now you're deflecting. He's not welcome here, I won't have it." Sherlock crossed his arms, face settling into a pout Mycroft knew far too well.

"Lucky for you I told him no then, isn't it brother?"

"Poor thing, I'm sure he's heartbroken."

Mycroft pursed his lips, scowling at his brother. "You are not amusing."

"Wasn't trying to be."

Mycroft stood, crossing to the liquor cabinet. "I'm going to have a scotch and then I am going to retire to the study to find what information I can on Moriarty and his accomplice."

"You won't find much," Sherlock said quietly. "They're professionals, I'm sure they can't be linked back to anything."

"Moran used his own name to let the flat, doesn't sound very intelligent."

"Because he's not really named Moran. It's a cover, although Moriarty really is Moriarty."

"What is Moran's real name then?" Mycroft asked, picking up his phone to text Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. "If I knew that then you already would know. All Moriarty did was call him tiger when he spoke at all. We were meant to be found. It was all a ruse to lead the Yard away from the actual smuggling ring."

Mycroft pondered his brother's words, feeling as if he were at a dead end. "So we have nothing more to go on than we did at the beginning?"

Sherlock smirked. "I wouldn't say that dear brother. I have a piece of Moran's hair."

Mycroft could have kissed Sherlock in that moment. "How on earth did you get that?"

"I wasn't taken without a fight. Had to knock me out with dichloromethane. Kept the few strands I recovered in my pocket."

"Do you feel up to giving a statement? We could get the hair analysed along with getting your statement."

"What happened to me taking a nap?"

"That was when you were being a prat."

Sherlock stuck out his tongue at his brother, slumping onto the couch. "Fine. Let's go to the station."

* * *

Much to Sherlock's dismay, Mycroft had messaged Gregory to meet them at the Yard, having been a witness of sorts to the crime. Sherlock threw a right fit when he saw him there and refused to talk until Gregory had left the room.

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous!" Mycroft fumed, glaring at Sherlock.

"I told you not to involve him!" Sherlock spat disdainfully.

"And I did because he was there when you were kidnapped and again when we came to get you from the flat. He deserves to know what the hell is going on as well."

"You just want to shag him, it had nothing to do with me being kidnapped so don't make it out to be anything else."

"You're insufferable," Mycroft sighed, avoiding the looks Officer Gregson was giving him.

Gregson cleared his throat. "Mycroft, a word outside if you don't mind?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, getting up from the chair he was seated in and followed Gregson out into the hall. "He's just being a brat, that's all," Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's like this all the time, tries to get under my skin."

"That being said," Gregson said thoughtfully, looking into the window of the interrogation room, "I think Sherlock has a point."

Mycroft felt his mouth hanging open and promptly shut it. "Gregson, Sherlock has no point; he's merely trying to get me in trouble."

Gregson affected a fatherly posture, his voice warming slightly. "Mycroft, I think you and Greg could do wonders for each other. Of course, it isn't my place. I'm going to go in and talk to your brother alone and when Greg returns with the coffee I sent him for I want you and him to talk it out."

"There's nothing to talk out," Mycroft said petulantly, feeling a bit like his brother.

Gregson gave him a look that spoke volumes, efficiently silencing Mycroft. "Figure it out Mycroft; I can't have your head somewhere else when we need it here." Gregson pushed the door to the interrogation room open and entered, leaving Mycroft alone and feeling very small for the first time in his life.

Greg returned with three cups of coffee and a cup of tea for Sherlock in hand, interrupting Gregson's conversation with Sherlock, forcing him to apologise and quickly scuttle back out of the room to stand next to Mycroft at the window.

"Did I miss anything?" Greg asked, sipping at his coffee.

Mycroft stood silent for a moment, pondering what to say over the cappuccino in his hand. "Not too much. Sherlock refused to talk while I was in there."

"He's still mad at you for yelling at him?"

Mycroft let out a laugh, surprising himself. "That, and for lying to him."

"About?"

Mycroft turned towards Greg slightly, feeling off-kilter. "My intentions, with you."

Greg took a long drink from his cup before speaking. "And what exactly are your intentions then?"

Mycroft shifted from his left foot to the right. "I realised, that night in my study that I would not be able to maintain a professional relationship without lines blurring in the future because somehow, no matter how hard I tried to block you out, or how many walls you built, you still permeated through my defences."

"So what you mean to say is that you accept my invitation of a date?" Greg smirked, jarring Mycroft's arm softly with his elbow.

"In so many words, yes." Mycroft couldn't help but to share a private smile with Greg. "You do need to understand though, that this is most likely going to end in a horrible mess. My past relationships have never worked out."

"There's no reason to count it as failed already. Maybe you just never found the right person to let go with."

Mycroft stared into the remnants of his coffee as if it held the answers to all of life's questions. "And perhaps you need a bit of structure in your life."

Greg looked up at the sound of the door opening. Gregson walked out, grinning. "Well done Mycroft, your brother has a hair from Moran, you taught him well."

"Don't let him hear you saying that," Mycroft remarked as Sherlock met them in the hall. "He's the proper genius."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, glaring at him. "I want to see the process the hair goes through, Gregson said I could."

Mycroft glanced at the other man for affirmation and was surprised to find him nodding. "That I did, come on, let's head to the lab."

Mycroft huffed as he filed in behind them, knowing not to let Sherlock out of his sight. He glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye, feeling a bit lost on how he'd gotten in this position at all. Mycroft Holmes had never fallen in love, romanticism and feelings were foreign to him and he wasn't sure he was ready to try another messy relationship.

* * *

Sherlock watched enthusiastically as the mitochondrial DNA test spun on, extracting mtDNA from three coding sections and matching it to the Met's criminal database. Mycroft sat on the bench in the lobby, looking over Greg's head into the lab to make sure Sherlock wasn't causing any problems.

"He's quite enthusiastic about the sciences," Greg mumbled, catching bits and pieces of conversation in the lab that floated through the door.

"He's enthusiastic about anything he sets his mind to. Just a few years ago he was going to be a pirate. I had a bloody hard time concentrating on my studies whilst he ran around speaking in pirate." Greg let out a genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners and Mycroft was suddenly struck by how attractive the man was.

"That is hard to believe, seeing as I helped pull that kid out of a wall vault and all he could do was sass the Bobbies for being slow."

"Watching them force him into a panda was well worth it though," Mycroft smiled fondly.

"The handcuffs were a nice touch."

"Indeed." Mycroft quieted, thinking. "You'd make a good Detective," he said finally, focusing at a spot on the glass to the immediate right of Greg's head.

"Hardly," Greg scoffed, looking down at the floor. "Plus, they don't let guys like me into the force."

Mycroft's eyes softened, noting the shift in Greg's demeanour. "You'd like it, I think, to solve crimes."

Greg's mouth turned up into a small half smile. "It'd be pretty damn awesome, yeah."

"Perhaps one day. As for now I need to get Sherlock home and make sure he gets supper in him." Mycroft stood from the chair, brushing down his suit.

Greg stood as well, extending his hand. "I'll see you soon then?"

"Of course." Mycroft took Greg's hand, shaking it before entering the lab. "Come Sherlock, it's time to go home."

"Don't wanna," Sherlock pouted.

Mycroft sighed. "I do not care what you do or do not want to do. Mummy is worried and she wants you home."

Sherlock acquiesced quietly, his face scrunching up petulantly. "I do expect you to keep me up to date on all happenings with this case," he remarked, staring down at the mobile Mycroft had handed him. "What's this for then?"

"Mummy and I differ on things. Use that next time you want to find me, it's yours."

"I'm not a charity case Mycroft," Sherlock spat, trying to shove it back into Mycroft's trouser pocket.

Mycroft huffed. "I know that Sherlock. I merely thought you would appreciate an easier way to keep in touch with anything going on. I loaded a police scanner onto it."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft almost admiringly, and Mycroft wished for a photo of the moment to mock his brother with later on. "Just, don't abuse it, and don't tell anyone I did it for you."

Sherlock held the mobile reverently in his hand, typing at the screen. "Thank you," he said quietly, almost inaudibly.

"You are welcome," Mycroft smiled, leading Sherlock to the car to take him home. "See that you don't get kidnapped for the next week."

Mycroft felt a presence next to him and turned to face Gregory as the car left the kerb. "So tonight? I'll have to go home and change, but I think I'm free."

Greg grinned. "Sounds perfect. I'll text you the address. Eight sound good?"

"Perfect," Mycroft returned, a strange feeling finding its home in his gut.


End file.
